


Five Decisions Winona Made For Her Family

by zarabithia



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Incorporates discussion of unplanned pregnancies.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-06 19:17:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20512142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarabithia/pseuds/zarabithia
Summary: She's neither a monster nor a saint.





	Five Decisions Winona Made For Her Family

**Author's Note:**

> Some "canon" is taken from the novels.

"This is the worst way to spend First Contact Day I can think of," George protested as he followed Winona into the open land that had once been her family's farm, many generations past.

Winona rolled her eyes and waited impatiently for George to catch up. "It's the only holiday between now and the end of term," she pointed out. "So as enticing as those sugared up pieces of fattening bread are, you'll just have to wait."

"You wound me, Winnie," George protested. "You think on the day of celebrating the start of our galactic friendships, I would stick with _Earth_ food? North American Earth food, at that?"

"Once an Idaho boy, always an Idaho boy," Winona answered.

"Hey, what's _that_ supposed to mean?" The first time Winona had realized that George Kirk was worth her time was when she had glanced across the aisle in stellar cartography and noticed the thing that set him apart from 99 percent of all incoming newbies at the Academy.

Most men would have liked the noticeable quality to be their build or their confidence, but for the man who had captured Winona's heart, it was all over facial flush that George got when he was frustrated.

She hadn't mentioned that quite yet. This thing between them was still new, and snapping your boy's sense of masculine pride was something Winona tried to hold off on _entirely_ until the third month of dating. It usually took that long to see if they were one hundred percent worth it.

"It means, George, dear, that I've dated you. And I know that while your feet might yearn for the stars, your tongue isn't going anywhere near a bowl of plomeek soup," Winona responded.

George made a face, similar to the disgust the most people held for that particular dish. "I know it's not very diplomatic, Winnie, but that stuff is disgusting."

"Like I said - once an Idaho boy, always an Idaho boy. Next time you try some, drop some potatoes in it. I'm sure that will make it more palatable," Winona teased.

"Very funny. So are you going to tell me, Iowa girl, why exactly you've dragged me away from the celebrations? Besides your typical hatred of them?"

"You know, most men would appreciate that their woman was bringing them to a nice secluded barn, miles away from civilization," Winona pointed out, placing her hands on her hips.

"Not when it's cold enough to see their breath they wouldn't," George answered, and he had a point. It was unreasonably cool for April. But maybe she was just getting used to the San Francisco weather. "And I know you, Winnie. You wouldn't have brought me all the way to Iowa for _that._"

She was that predictable, was she? Well, Winona would just have to prove him wrong when it got warmer. There were certain things that hay lofts could do that no crowded student apartment could ever replicate.

But in the meantime, George was right. "Your aim stinks," she pointed out. "And if you keep it up, you're going to fail Intro to Security Techniques."

"Remind me again how much I love your bluntness," George pleaded, pinching his nose. "Because right now, I am kind of forgetting."

Winona grabbed his hand. "You love my bluntness because you know I'm right. Now, come on. I've set up a nice round of targets for us in the barn."

"And to think, I could be celebrating in Montana instead of this," George remarked. "Whatever was I thinking?"

"Obviously not thinking about your imminent failure of Admiral Reed's class," Winona answered. "Which is why we are going to practice until your aim is better, or until your fingers fall off. Whichever happens first."

George continued to grumble as she pulled him to the barn, but he followed nonetheless. Glancing over her shoulder once or twice, Winona noticed that he was _definitely_ looking frustrated.

Oh, maybe they'd get a tumble or two out of those hay lofts, after all. It wasn't _that_ cold.

~~

George's father always claimed that no food synthesizer could do justice to a man's mouth quite the way that good old-fashioned homemade could. In retaliation, George's mother had replied that if Tiberius wanted homemade food, he could damn well make it himself.

About the only food that Tiberius Kirk ever actually mastered was potato soup, something that "was pretty hard to screw up," according to George's mother. But Tiberius Kirk had always been very proud of that potato soup, and claimed it had a long, proud Kirk tradition going back several generations of Idaho-loving Kirks.

George had always been suspicious of that tale, even as a youngster. For one thing, his mother had made it clear that the "generations of Idaho-loving Kirks" was a questionable claim.

But even with his own distrust of the story, George had sat at his father's kitchen table and proudly learned the recipe.

At home in their San Francisco apartment, George had to alter the recipe significantly for his wife. The onions and peppers had to be tossed out, because they made Winnie nauseous. He skipped the milk base because synthesized milk tasted funny with _real_ food.

Then he made his way back into the living room to make his offering, carefully dodging his first born's efforts at fort building.

Winona looked at it warily. "Probably won't be able to keep it down," she muttered. "You'd think 23rd century medicine could do a better job at morning sickness. Of course, you'd also think that we'd have a better birth control system that wouldn't rely on an engineer's memory to show up for her birth control hypo."

"I used to get this soup all the time when I wasn't feeling well," George pointed out gently.

He received a glare for his efforts. "This isn't _not feeling well_, George. This is being pregnant. There's a big difference."

George tried not to be obnoxious with his next statement. "So we're using the P word now? I thought we were avoiding it."

"Yeah, we're using a the P word," Winona sighed and glanced over at Little George.

"You don't sound very enthusiastic about it," George noted.

"You have enough enthusiasm for us both," Winona joked.

"Winnie, if you don't want to -"

"We've already had this discussion," Winona cut him off. "And yes, I know it's my choice to make. But we both know that having this baby is a bad idea. With our tour on the Kelvin coming up, not to mention ..." she waved to their Little George, who waved back, obliviously and happily.

"You're a _perfect_ mother," George said lowly and defensively. Perhaps more defensively than was strictly necessary.

Winona rolled her eyes. "There's no such thing, and I'm certainly not it."

"Just because you didn't bond with the baby right away -"

"George, we _still_ haven't bonded. Not really. Not the way other mothers do with their sons."

George wanted to argue. But he couldn't do so, not truthfully. "Maybe you just need time," he offered, and if he were a better, less selfish husband, he would give her an out and suggest that they really do terminate the pregnancy so she can _have _that time.

The words were on his tongue, trying to twist their way out.

"I love him, though. Maybe not the way a mother should, but I love him." Winona squeezed George's hand tightly. "Watch over him for me? I need to go file the pregnancy report to Starfleet so the proper accommodations can be made."

"Of course." The proper words of support died on George's tongue, and he kissed his wife before scooping up his son.

"Maybe this one will be different," Winona offered quietly, kissing her son gently on the cheek.

George watched her go, and hoped things really _would_ be different this time around.

~~

The first thing Jim's mother did, after George ratted him out, was send both George _and_ Frank away. Jim was rather pleased by that state of affairs; it meant he got to have his mother all to himself for a change.

Still, given the circumstances, even a six-year-old knew that might be such a good thing. So he wrapped his arms around his waist and tried not to notice the cold spring air giving his legs goosebumps as he sat on the porch.

"Are you mad?" he finally asked.

It was a fair question, because Jim knew that people were mad in his family a lot. They weren't always mad at him, of course. George spent a lot of time being mad at Frank, and Frank barely noticed that Jim was around - mostly because Jim tried not to be, as much as possible.

Why stay in the house when he had such a great barn to retreat too?

"I'm not exactly happy with you at the moment, no," his mom admitted. She glanced up from looking at his leg. "What is the one rule I have about going into the barn, Jimmy?"

"Stay away from the lofts," Jim repeated quietly. Mom was hardly ever _really_ mad at him.

"And you broke that rule. Want to tell me why?" She moved, reaching back into the first aide kit and Jim found it was easier to talk when she wasn't looking disappointed at him.

"It's the best place to read!" he exclaimed. "How'm I supposed to read Ambassador T'Pol's books _on the ground_?"

His mother looked back at him, but this time she laughed. "Ambassador T'Pol's books, huh? All twelve volumes detailing the NX-01's journeys?" She ran the regenerator over his leg, even though Jim was sure she didn't need to. It was just a tiny scratch, after all.

"I'm only up to volume three," Jim explained. "That's when I fell."

"Those lofts are decades old," his mother answered. "And rotted clear through in most cases. You're lucky you didn't fall and break your neck."

Jim pouted. He _had_ broken his PADD. "I'm a better faller than that," he proclaimed.

"You're a Kirk. We fall better than anyone." His mother ruffled his hair and put the regenerator back into the kit. "Take this into the house for me, then come meet me in the barn."

"We're going back into the barn?"

His mother nodded solemnly. "Your body weight _did_ break the loft," she pointed out. "I'd say a fitting punishment is to help me fix it - and the rest of them - so that you don't fall again."

Jim hugged his mother tightly and ran the entire way, into the kitchen and back out into the barn again. He was glad he had a Starfleet officer for a mom, who could fix torn-up knees and broken barn lofts.

~~

Sometimes, George felt bad about the _amount_ of trouble he got in. Sometimes, he regretted the way his mother's face would invariably twist into a thin line, like she was trying her best not to yell every bit as loud as George and Frank ever did.

The only person in their family to ever make that same expression was Jimmy. George didn't hold out much hope that Jimmy would keep making that face, though. Sooner or later, Jimmy would get tired of their family, too, and he'd give up trying to hold it in. Jimmy was a _Kirk_ and he'd realize how much their family was determined not to _let them be_ Kirks.

Then George's little brother would find his voice and yell just as loudly as George and Frank did.

Standing outside his teacher's office, stewing over his little brother's inability to yell properly, and his own trouble, George found it incredibly difficult to care about the amount of discomfort he'd caused his mother.

"I understand how difficult it must be, having a son who gets into trouble so often," George's teacher was saying, and George mentally made a note to be twice as "difficult" in her class as soon as the opportunity struck.

"My son means well," his mother replied and George snorted. What would she know about it, anyway? It wasn't like she was ever around long enough to know whether or not he meant well. Just long enough to apologize to the teachers, mess around with Frank and then head back to space.

"Your situation must be so hard," the teacher said, her voice full of sympathy, which was a first as far as George could tell.

"My ... situation?"

"I don't mean to open an old wound, but your husband's death is a matter of Federation history. You obviously have a fantastic career and are trying your hardest to be a good mother to children who ... well, shall we say, aren't exactly grateful for the sacrifices you've made for them."

Oh, _this_ was familiar. George had heard it more than once. Poor old Widow Kirk and her terrible, bratty sons. People thought his mother was such a fucking martyr.

Mostly, he stopped long enough to tell the nosy old jerks that she wasn't "Mrs. Kirk" or "Widow Kirk" or any kind of "Kirk" anymore. He fully expected his mother to do that, then thank the teacher for her support.

But for the first time in a long while, George heard something in his mother's voice besides disappointment.

"If I blamed my engines for their mistakes every time there was a problem, I'd be fired for my job for being a cruddy engineer. That would be fair, because obviously, I would have no business being around engines if I were that incompetent," his mother stated, her voice cold in a way that George had never heard before. "I would think that a person in your position who would ever stop to blame _children_ for any difficulties they might be having in life, and to further make those children into a _burden_ should similarly be out of a job. At the very least, you have no business actually being around children."

George was still staring at the door in disbelief, waiting for his teacher to answer back, when his mother exited the classroom. She looked, briefly, furious.

But then her mouth formed into that line again. He expected a lecture on eavesdropping, but that wasn't what he received. "We're leaving," she said simply.

For once, he listened.

~~

Coming back to Earth was always difficult. Winona supposed it was that way for most Starfleet officers, even the short range ones. But for her, coming back to Earth after a mission always reminded her of the empty feeling she'd had just after Jim's birth, after the explosion of the Kelvin.

Coming home still gave her that feeling, although Winona suspected that it had long since stopped having very much to do with her dead husband or her sons at all.

But this trip had even more unpleasantness to deal with - coming home to discover George had run away and Jim had driven a car off a cliff - Winona wondered what it said about her that she would be far happier to leave _this_ time than she had in previous trips.

Getting into space should at least clear up the colossal headache she had from dealing with child protective agencies and law enforcement. Not to mention dealing with a marriage she had barely managed to salvage.

"You're gone a lot, Winona. I do the best I can by those kids without you," Frank had claimed.

It was a low blow, but Winona had to believe it was a truthful one. Besides the other option was that she quit and stay home and she couldn't.

She just _couldn't_. That empty feeling would stay with her forever if she did.

Before she left, she sat down on porch next to Jim. "Some of the law officials think you were trying to kill yourself," she said softly. "_Is_ that what was happening?"

"What do you _care_?"

Jim had always been the good son, the one who retreated to his room or the barn to read. He was their smart, darling little boy who never got in trouble the way George did. George hadn't even been gone a month, but there was the same fury and disgust in her youngest son's voice that had always been there in George's tone.

She wrapped her arms around her knees for warmth. "I'm your mother. Of course I care."

It sounded like the wrong thing to say, the minute it left her mouth.

Jim shrugged. "Did you find George?"

"They're still looking for him."

"They won't find him," Jim said, and it sounded like a matter of pride. "He's a _Kirk_."

Winona hoped that was enough to keep her oldest safe, wherever he had ran away to. They'd looked for so long, in every port and space dock ... but the boy she'd named after the man she'd loved most was no where to be found.

"Tell me," she prodded gently, "that you weren't trying to hurt yourself and that you won't do it again." She squeezed Jim's hand tightly as she made her plea.

He slipped his hand out of hers. "No more cliffs," he answered.

"James -"

"No more cliffs," he repeated.

She felt the conversation come to an abrupt end with Jim's words. Something in her told her to push the conversation, but she felt as helpless to continue as she had felt those first few weeks after the birth of both of her sons, when she had tried so hard to bond in the way that a _good_ mother should.

She hadn't succeeded then, and Winona knew, as she got up to leave, that this was another failure on her part. But she left anyway, heading back to the space that needed her, the space that called to her and offered her the opportunity to be a great engineer in such a obvious contrast to the type of mother she'd become.

She wished she could fix her sons, and her family, as easily as she could fix her engines.

She glanced back, long enough to see Jim holding his knees against the cool Iowa breeze, and she had an urge to run back and hug him and tell him that George would be okay - that their whole family would be okay. 

But the transport was waiting on her, and besides, it wasn't _that_ cold.  



End file.
